


Red, Red, Dead

by tea_leaf_reader



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: ...sort of..., Also mentions of someone vomiting so if you're not about that...you may want to proceed with caution, Alternate Universe - High School, Body Horror, But it's on the mild side, Hanahaki Disease, Mild Blood, Multi, Post-Canon, There's a twist to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-04 03:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16338911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_leaf_reader/pseuds/tea_leaf_reader
Summary: Did he want to die? No, of course not, but would confessing to his best friends be any easier than dealing with the flowers threatening to take over his life? That was also a no.





	1. Honeysuckle

It begins with wild honeysuckle and tiger lilies.

Max is with them because of course he is, he almost always is if he isn’t with anyone else, and there’s a flash of a fanged smile from Nikki and a burst of light, loose laughter from Neil and without warning he finds himself sprinting to the bathroom of the rundown, family-run Mexican restaurant that sits on the outskirts of Sleepy Peak to spew up bits of barely digested burrito and phlegm and bile and something yellow, then orange, that he doesn’t recall previously eating. 

Clutching the outer rim of the toilet for dear life, he leans forward, squinting, trying to tell what the hell he just regurgitated from the depths of his digestive tract.

Fragments of flower petals, sopping wet and breaking apart, lay amongst the rest of the expelled waste. He shakes his head, frowning, and makes a move to flush the refuse down, down, down where no one—including himself—can see it. Wiping at his mouth, he washes his hands, staring at himself in the mirror all the while because  _something’s not right, something’s definitely not right here._

But he ignores it, swallowing it alongside the sick feeling in his still-churning stomach.

“Must be some bad chicken or something,” he says offhandedly when he returns to the table, to their worried looks, “let’s get out of this shithole before you guys get sick, too.”


	2. Carnations

He thought that was the end of it. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be that lucky.

A week passed, but the queasiness in his gut didn’t subside, and he started to question if he did, in fact, get some bad chicken that was causing this. Food poisoning explained the suddenness of the onslaught of loathsome symptoms, yes, but it didn’t explain the thing he was trying not the think about, not actively at least. He knew David was concerned, but he brushed it off, telling him it wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last time he got food poisoning, not with the way Gwen cooked anyways, which earned him a whack on the back of his hand with a wooden spoon from his mom, a brief scolding from his dad, and snickers from them both that let him know that his comment had been forgiven.

So the issue was out of sight, out of mind, until it wasn’t.

They were at school and, as usual, were loitering around the hallways during their lunch hour, attempting to piece together what the epic, showstopping plans for the weekend were. Nikki suggested something about driving to the zoo a few counties over and releasing the wolves from their enclosure so she could finally realize her dream of becoming the pack leader she had talked about being since they’d first met years ago, but Neil waved her off with a lopsided grin, saying that she could wait until the summer when they were back at Camp Campbell to do that, and the subsequent cackle from her combined with the slight shudder of a suppressed snort from him made Max’s heart clench in a manner both pleasant and painful, and before he knew it the hot rush of acid was burbling up once again and he felt himself barreling towards the restroom, hand pressed over his mouth.

The yellow of wild honeysuckle, the orange of tiger lilies and, he noted with a jolt, the pink of carnation petals that had joined the other two in mocking him.

He flushed it down, out of sight, out of mind, and wiped the sheen of sweat that had collected on his forehead off with a swipe of his wrist before rejoining them.

“Food poisoning,” he stated, “fucking food poisoning.” But he didn’t believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about this chapter in particular aside from the fact that things are obviously starting to heat up in terms of intensity for Max. Also, I decided to have David and Gwen be together since this story takes place quite a few years in the future. Moreover, they're both raising Max as his parents (although he hasn't gotten to the point of admitting that they are his parents, not aloud at least) so that's pretty cool.


	3. Violets

Another week passes and the indications that he is not well become clearer, more distinct, so he hides them, concealing them under the guise of a lingering bout of food poisoning that is clinging on way longer than it should be, the damn thing.

He’s still vomiting, more so when he’s brushing his teeth in the morning and at night than at school or any other public place, and the pesky petals return, bringing along a few new friends. Violets splotched with sunny yellow and a deep, dark purple, blossoms that look like bruises. Daisies, white and uniform. Lavender, a bloom that leaves a too herbaceous taste on his tongue, a taste too verdant for his liking.

Among the appearance of more florets he begins to notice some other anomalies, too, like how Nikki’s hair bobs up and down as if it has a mind of its own when she’s practicing for track tryouts, and the manner in which it glints like the shimmer of fish scales in the sunlight, but only for a fleeting second, just long enough to enrapture him. He observes how utterly long Neil is, how even his hands and his fingers are in proportion to the lengthiness exhibited by the rest of his body, and how his nails are usually broken and perhaps eternally doomed to be so because he chews on them when he’s nervous, a bad habit that Max wonders if he’s consciously aware of. Why he is aware of it, he can't say.

The small observances start to pile up with the flower buds following suit, and he ponders what they could mean, what they should mean, what it might all mean.

And then, one night, it hits him right after he’s finished throwing up what could be considered a handful of Scottish heather and those lilies and that honeysuckle.

He’s in love with his best friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *zooms in on roller blades* Hey, long time, no see. So, in truth, I was neglecting this a little because I wasn't sure if I was going to finish it or not due to some outside pressures that were getting to me at the time and, since that was going on, I was contemplating taking the entire story down instead of letting it sit and rot if I lost interest in it completely, but fortunately I managed to become inspired once again and finish it, so regular updates should be coming, and I'm hoping to have the whole of it up soon. On a side note, we got a cliffhanger, and we got another pretty short chapter here as well. Worry not, though, there are some slightly lengthier ones coming up, so stay tuned for that.


	4. Marigolds

He contemplates it a thousand ways, a thousand times over—of course it couldn’t be just Nikki, just Neil, or neither of them really. It had to be both of them, didn’t it? He growls, a low sound borne of pure frustration, and coughs up a fistful of chrysanthemums before plonking down on his bed and unscrewing the cap of his fourth water bottle of the evening, downing it like a man who is dying of dehydration which, he muses, maybe isn’t as far off from the truth as he had initially hoped. The signs were present even if they had been ignored.

But why had he ignored them? Why had he pushed them to the wayside, hoping that, by some miracle, they would have absolved themselves by now or, at the very least, dissolved into something more manageable that  _didn’t_  involve countless hours of heaving up plant matter, plant matter that shouldn’thave been occupying his tired form in the first place? He screws his eyes shut, frowning. They’re old things, old wounds, but they still hurt, and they still dictate his life in subtle terms, terms he isn’t necessarily consciously aware of, not always. The notion of not deserving love, not deserving to be loved, plagues him, and even though the external manifestations of the neglect that he’d encountered as a child had long since faded, they continued to cling to him, pervading him, an ever-present whisper of  _not good enough, not good enough, not good enough._

Licking his parched lips, he sighs, and reaches for his laptop. There’s work to be done.

Surprisingly, the answer comes from a forum on a website decorated with blinking half-moons, winking black cats, and wart-nosed witches merrily cackling as they zoom across the center of the page on pixelated broomsticks. Hanahaki disease—an illness caused and characterized by pining for an unknown or a possibly unrequited love—that primarily infects witches, wizards, those in-between, or anyone who has come into contact with the sorcery that these beings possess. A rare disease, a disease only treatable by expelling the emotions or, as one commenter so aptly put it, “biting the bullet and telling them your true intentions”.

Max stares at the screen, confusion evident on his face. He wasn’t a witch, a wizard, or anything in-between, that was wrong, so why would he be having—

Something clicks, a horrible realization. An inexperienced illusionist. A magic trick gone awry. Days of him puking pieces of cloth, dice, playing cards, live doves, bouquets of flowers.

_Harrison._

And because he can never catch a break, not one stupid fucking break, it’s at that moment that his body decides it would be fun to hack up a marigold petal flecked with blood. Terrific.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the time has come for me to provide an explanation as to why this case of hanahaki disease is different from your typical case of hanahaki disease, so buckle up, kids, these notes might get a tad bit long. First off, hanahaki disease is usually characterized in most fanfics and other artistic works by one-sided love that can only be "cured" through the surgical removal of the petals but, in turn with the removal of said petals, the feelings for the person or the people are also removed. Since that has a lot of potential for angst and I mentioned I'm not about that angst, I tossed those two concepts out the window and instead went in a slightly different route: body horror. If you haven't pieced it together by now, Max is essentially having all of the water inside him being slowly taken up by the increasing number of flowers that are making a home in his body, and it's not...fun, not fun at all but, knowing at this point that something is probably seriously wrong, does he confess? Well, no, because then we wouldn't have this story, would we? Additionally, I decided while plotting out the basic points of this fanfic that I wanted hanahaki disease to be an illness that usually only affects people who are in someway magical or who have magical abilities, but if someone non-magical were to come into contact with direct magic like, oh, I don't know, Max in Mind Freakers after being hit with Harrison's rogue spell, then they could potentially develop the disease, too. I thought it'd be nice to do a callback to an earlier episode (nice for me, not nice for Max and anyone who cares about him) in a way that made sense to the overall story.


	5. Snapdragons

David is worried about him.

Orange tulips dappled with cream. He’s sleeping more, but not feeling well-rested.

Gwen is worried about him.

Iris a particular shade of midnight blue. His eyes are sinking in, sunken in.

His friends are worried about him.

Foxglove, dusty pink in hue. There are spells of dizziness, times he can barely stand.

He’s worried about himself. 

Snapdragons a velvety black in color. The rapid beat of his stuttering heart, the slight fever to his withered skin, how he can never quite shake the feeling of severe nausea, of cloying sickness blooming in his abdomen, his esophagus, the core of his being. 

 _Is it worth it_ , Max wonders,  _for love?_

He doesn’t know, and if he continues on as is, he fears that that chance might evade him.

 _Tomorrow,_  he resolves, _I’ll tell them tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this time. It's meant to act as a bridge between chapters four and six, and trust me, you all are going to need it.


	6. Roses

But perhaps they weren’t meant to know.

Dawn is breaking through the cloud cover and its orange sun, like a freshly-peeled tangerine, is ringed with streaks of pale rose, of golden honey, and it’s only then when he is awoken by a coughing fit, by the sensation of gagging on his own saliva, his own mucus, on something hot and sticky and so very angry clawing its way up, up, up, threatening to choke him, to constrict him, to bind him to his bed, his death, a death he doesn’t want to face, no, not now, not when there was so much left to do. Gasping for air, he claws at his throat, tears pricking his eyes as he stumbles to his bathroom, flicking on the light switch in one fluid motion.

Roses, crimson in color, with their leaves and, more distressingly, their thorns are fighting their way up his windpipe, crowding in and around one another in an intricate dance to determine who can be the first of them to make it outside of the confines of his mouth, to unfurl and suck up any speckle of sunlight that his body had deprived them and any droplet of water that they had deprived his body.

Tasting the tell-tale metallic tinge of copper, he spits into the sink, revealing blood, a lot of blood, too much blood that’s too thick, too viscous, downright syrupy in its consistency.

Wonderful, just wonderful.

He pokes his head out of the bathroom, only thinking to cover his mouth when he notices the trickle of bright red oozing from his pursed lips, staining the beige carpet underfoot. Oh,  _that_ was going to be a hell of a way to thank David and Gwen for giving him a home, a real family, two people in this godforsaken, no-good fucking pathetic excuse of a world who actually gave a shit about him. Blood and a still-warm corpse overflowing with flowers, gee, how thoughtful of him, how sweet.

The small clock on his nightstand flashes 5:56 a.m. He wasn’t going to make it.

Grabbing his phone, he quickly punches in his password and opens his, Neil’s, and Nikki’s group chat. He squints at the screen, vision beginning to blur at the edges, thumbs racing over the tiny keys, trying desperately not to slip up in his haste.

**WOLF PACK!!!!!!!!!!/Team of Scientists/comedy trio**

**max:**  fuck i know its super early but somethings wrong

There’s a beat of silence, and he’s mentally preparing himself to type out another message when two sharp pings sound almost simultaneously.

 **IKK!!!:**  MAX WHATS WRONG

 **Neil:**  Yeah, are you okay? Why are you awake this early? Are you hurt?

Inhaling deeply, he begins what Preston might call his parting monologue.

 **max:** i dont have time 2 explain bc i think im dying bc of some bulllshit harrison did 2 me our 1st year a tcamp but i need u both 2 know that i love u not just as friends but really love u both of u and im sorry i didnt tell u earlier but i was scared what u would thinkk and iwas worri ed it would ruin our friendship but now its 2 late andim sorry,, im so sorryg uys. i love you both so much

And with a final click to send it, Max breathes a sigh of relief, and then collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Bleeding Hearts

He blinks once, twice, sluggishly, owlishly, and immediately recoils at the astringent, overpowering scent of antiseptic and the feeling of something jabbing into the exposed flesh of his arm. No, multiple things jabbing into both of his arms, and the blinding florescence of artificial lighting overhead that’s causing his headache to worsen, and the papery sheet, the poor excuse for clothing that is barely enough to cover the essentials, this thing that constitutes a hospital gown.

Wait. Hospital gown? Ah, shit.

There’s the sound of a door opening and closing, a mere whoosh of a noise muted by the soft carpeting of the small room, and he looks up to see a nurse dressed in floral scrubs—mm, floral, the irony of it all—and she smiles, eyes bright, as she pads quietly yet quickly over to him. He assumes she’s checking on him, checking on his vitals, but his head is still encumbered with what feels like fog and blackstrap molasses and Gwen’s diabolical green bean casserole that she insists on making each and every year for Thanksgiving to spite him.

The nurse leaves, seemingly satisfied with whatever she was seeking or somehow hoping to find, and for one moment, just a moment, he thinks he may be out of the woods.

And then he remembers the red, red roses, the hasty messages sent when he was half-delirious, the falling backward, attempting to catch his breath and being unable to, and then a sleepiness akin to the sensation of drowning, paralyzing at first, then peaceful, a gentle wave tucking him under its current to sleep, perchance to dream...

Okay, now he knew he’d been spending too much time around that annoying thespian.

He almost died. Hell, maybe he  _did_  die. He didn’t quite know, and maybe he never quite would.

Needless to say, he really should’ve expected the string of visitors coming his way.

David and Gwen, his parents, each of them sobbing, one more out of fear, one more out of anger, both out of genuine relief. Harrison with a sheepish expression and an apology on his lips, an apology that he didn’t need but accepted because while there was nothing to forgive, he knew if it wasn’t put to rest now, it would be something that would continue to haunt the magician. Nerris and Preston sidled beside Harrison, one to his right, one to his left, offering a potion to “aid in a speedy recovery”—and how she had even smuggled that into the care unit he was currently housed in let alone into the hospital itself he couldn’t guess—as well as a card decorated with too much glitter and too many sparkles that was hardly legible when taking the swirling, swooping cursive of the writer’s hand and his dyslexic scrawl into account, but hey, at least it was something.

A hurried scribble of “get well soon, dude” on a scrap of notebook paper from Ered, a few homemade chocolate chip cookies that looked as heavenly as they smelled from Nurf, a crudely-drawn flower from Dolph, and a painting of Max and the space case, packed tightly into a rocket ship, holding hands, joined the mounting pile of gifts, of mementos that murmured _glad you’re okay, glad you’re here_.

But there were two people he hadn’t confronted yet, two people who may be more than glad that he’s safe, sound, and snuggled into a rickety bed with blue sheets.

She comes in, followed by him, and there’s words exchanged, some of joy, some of exasperation, some tainted with sorrow and sympathy that he instantly curtails, claiming it wasn’t them, it was him, it was always him. He can sense himself winding up on the inside, preparing to lay down a wall brick by brick should the worst come about, but something unexpected happens—he isn’t greeted by their confession that they don’t want nor need his companionship anymore, quite the opposite really. There are words of love exchanged last, whispered like a long-cherished secret, a lullaby in a foreign tongue, and as Neil gently strokes the inside of his splayed-out palm and Nikki gingerly teases her fingers through his curly locks, Max leans back and breathes, truly breathes, for the first time in a long while.

Everything will work out fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dr. Frankenstein voice* IT'S ALIVE! So, yeah, Max is okay, and things are finally working out for him. What else should I say? There's some background Nerriston (Nerris/Harrison/Preston) if you squint because what's better than one poly ship (hint: two poly ships), Max loves his Dadvid and Gwom, and all of the campers sort of function as one big, dysfunctional family and they were very worried about their cynical brat.


	8. Tiger Lilies

Years later, while making preparations for their unofficial official wedding, one groom-to-be finds himself sitting in a flower shop, waiting to speak with the florist about her arrangements, face-to-face with a bouquet composed entirely of tiger lilies and wild honeysuckle.

Max can’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day! I wanted to do these last two chapters together because, well, this one barely constitutes as an update because it's so short. It's simply a small clincher I wanted to include to really give a sense of conclusion to the story, and I loved the ironic aspect of it the more I thought about it. Anyways, I truly hope you enjoyed this story, and tune in to see what I have in store next time (whenever that may be).

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, great title, am I right? Second of all, here's the initial snippet of a story I was intending to write and post in full for Goretober but, well, life got in the way (as it always does), I didn't (or haven't) finished the story, and I thought hey, I might as well post the parts I did manage to complete to see if I actually find the will to conclude the story (as in finish writing it) before starting another project. Will I? Who knows, but I sure had fun writing these few parts that I will be posting over the next few weeks. Also, I should mention that this is centered on hanahaki disease, but it's not true hanahaki disease because I'm not about that angst, so I'll explain more in depth later how it's a bit different.


End file.
